


The Dreaded Nomad

by darlingDesires



Category: Nomad of Nowhere (Web Series)
Genre: Uh Oh You Pissed Off The Nomad, blind nomad, cute times, let him be happy, new fight scenes, nomad and is critters have their own lil language, snappy one liners, tags to be updated, this took too long, this’ll release in chronological order of episodes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-06-30 00:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15740664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingDesires/pseuds/darlingDesires
Summary: The Nomad shook his head slightly, chuckling, feeling the vines around him and advancing towards the shriek, calling out with a hand in a wave, “Don’t worry, miss! They’re harmless.”“Hey! Uh, d-don’t move!” A commanding--if not slightly nervous--voice called towards him, the same one who’d been startled by his companions. It was a girl with an accent, maybe of the southern drawl he used to hear from others, long before. She didn’t sound too old, maybe a teenager? The Nomad couldn’t exactly tell what the girl in front of him was doing, or how she was gesturing, but he could guess from the way she shouted towards him.





	1. The Dreaded Nomad

**Author's Note:**

> it’s just episode one, but the nomad’s blind instead of mute (✿◕‿◕)

The atmosphere outside was peaceful, quiet except for a few gentle animals, and air like a warm sunbath in the middle of winter. It was a little bit cooler outside than the Nomad was used to as he was softly shaken awake. The slight chill in the air around him helped bring his mind to a clearer focus. He yawned softly, reaching towards the critter that had been prodding him, stroking the top of it with his thumb lovingly. “Good mornin’, you.” The Nomad took a deep breath of air, reminded of the distinctly not-morning scent of water in the dirt and cool skies bringing their love to him. “It’s not morning, is it? How late did I sleep in?”

The rock reached up to the Nomad’s arm, tracing a circle, striking through it with a single line and creating a zigzag pattern beneath it. “...it’s near night? What’d you wake me up for, little friend?”

It gave three solid taps on the Nomad’s wrist. He sat up, keeping one hand near the critter and upturning his palm. A little hand positioned, and began to draw a stick figure, complete with a lightning symbol next to it. The Nomad let out an interested  _ huh _ , tapping the fingers of his other hand against the comforter. “Timmy’s stuck in the well?”

An emphasized X was traced. The Nomad laughed softly, smiling, shaking his head slightly. “I know, I know. Jokes aside, are you sayin’ there’s someone in the patch?” He was met with a response of one tap, and the Nomad nodded. “Who is it? Do y’know?”

No response. The Nomad frowned, standing up. Despite being able to feel it across his face, the Nomad reached both hands up, tightening the bandana resting over his eyes. A flurry of rock friends could be heard scrambling down from somewhere, piling up at the Nomad’s side. He reached a confident hand out, easily locating where he’d rested his hat and placing it on top of his head, trailing his fingertips along the brim for just a moment before resting his hand on the rocks with a smile. “Alright, lead me to ‘em.”

He’d been walking for only a few moments before he heard a scream, and the unmistakable shuffling noises of his critters. The Nomad shook his head slightly, chuckling, feeling the vines around him and advancing towards the shriek, calling out with a hand in a wave, “Don’t worry, miss! They’re harmless.”

“Hey! Uh, d-don’t move!” A commanding--if not slightly nervous--voice called towards him, the same one who’d been startled by his companions. It was a girl with an accent, maybe of the southern drawl he used to hear from others, long before. She didn’t sound too old, maybe a teenager? The Nomad couldn’t exactly tell what the girl in front of him was doing, or how she was gesturing, but he could guess from the way she shouted towards him.

“Pardon?” He asked, letting the hand that had been held up in greeting fall to his side.

“I said,  _ don’t move! _ Stay where you are,” the nerves in her voice only seemed to become more and more prominent as the sound of some shuffling of objects could be heard. Different than the sound his critters made, this sounded more like a searching through a canvas bag. Helpless, the Nomad obliged.

One of the rocks tugged at his pants, and he reached a hand down, allowing the critter space to climb up onto his arm and rest on his shoulder. The Nomad stood back up--clearly movement in  _ general _ wasn’t the issue, she might’ve just been concerned about the distance between the two of them, which was… understandable. Not all strangers were kind.

“Could’ya do me a favor, and try to look a smidge more intimidatin’ for a secon’?” The southern girl asked with slight confusion. The Nomad pursed his lips, tilting his head down.  _ What did intimidating look like? _ He held up his hands to look like claws and grinned. She laughed softly in response, and there was more shuffling noises--the crinkling of paper, the close of a zipper--before she concluded, “I guess that answers that.”

“If it ain’t rude to ask, what’re you doin’ out here? Hardly anyone comes ‘round these brambles,” The Nomad asked the young lady, taking a few steps closer to where she was with his hands slightly in front of his chest—partly to make sure he didn’t bump into her, partly to show he meant no harm. He figured that her softer tone meant he was in the clear, but wanted to err on the side of caution. Just in case.

“I’m out catchin’ a bounty!” She replied enthusiastically, bouncing.

“Doesn’t  _ that _ sound like a blast,” The Nomad chuckled.

“It is! We’ve been huntin’ him for _ ever _ , nobody’s seen ‘im in a long time, we think he’s here…” The crinkling of paper was heard, and the Nomad paid no mind to the rock friend trying to get his attention. “Say, you don’t happen to live out in these brambles, do ya?”

“I do, I’ve lived here most’a my life,” The Nomad nodded.

“Maybe you can help me, then!”

“I'm happy to do what I can, ma’am.” The Nomad reached a hand up, tipping the brim of his hat towards her with a smile.

She giggled. “Well, ain’t you just the sweetest!”

The Nomad laughed softly, reaching a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I cain’t see any reason not to be.”

“Folks usually ain’t as kind as you. I’d like to believe you can trust in the kindness of strangers, but… not everybody’s like that,” The girl admitted. “It’s like a breath of fresh air.”

“Glad to do my part… and uh, who’d you say you were after again?” The Nomad mused, shifting his weight from one side to the next and resting his palms against his hips.

“The Dreaded Nomad of Nowhere!” The Nomad froze. Oh. She’s… after the Nomad. “He’s the last magic user in Nowhere, there’s been a huge bounty hangin’ over his head for the longest time. Heard of ‘im?” The Nomad just nodded.  _ How’re you supposed to respond to the news that you’re being hunted by the nicest person you’ve met--the only person you’ve met--in long time?  _ “I’m Skout, by the way. You got a name, stranger?”

The Nomad forced a smiled, dropping his hands to his side. He guessed that she didn’t know it was him--maybe she didn’t recognize him--and it took a moment before he responded. He only hoped the hesitance in his voice wasn’t enough cause for suspicion. “Just call me friend.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me, friend,” Skout chuckled, and the sound of the pages of a book turning could be heard. “Not to change the subject, but there ain’t nothin’ quite like these critters in my field guide,” Skout said curiously, “are they natives?”

The Nomad shrugged his shoulders up, making a slight noise of indecision.  _ What am I supposed to say? _ “I wouldn’t quite say that.”

“I dunno… you’d know better than me,” she shook her head gently. “‘f you say they ain’t exactly natives, then… then maybe…” her eyes lit up, “maybe the Nomad  _ is _ here! This could all be a result of his magic!”

“That’s… a possibility,” The Nomad affirmed.

“I have to go, friend,” Skout said with excitement. “I’ve gotta find Toth ‘fore we lose him!”

In this moment, the Nomad had a decision. He could allow the receding footsteps to continue on, away from him, or he could-- “Wait!” The steps stopped abruptly. The Nomad paused, and when he didn’t hear anything more than a slight transfer of weight against the dirt, he continued, “I could… show you the Nomad’s house.”

“You know where he  _ lives _ ?” Skout gasped.

The Nomad nodded slowly, unsure why that was his first response and unsure if it was the  _ right  _ response, but willing to roll with it. “Yes, I-- I believe I do. If, in fact, he’s the only other fella livin’ ‘round here.”

“Oh, thank you, friend!” He heard a few fast steps towards him, and tensed, but when a pair of arms were around him in a gesture he hadn’t experienced since… since somebody else, he tensed in a different way. It was less defensive, and more reactionary as he let his arms rest around her slightly smaller form. She let go all too quickly, taking the Nomad’s hand in her own with a slight laugh. “C’mon, we don’t have time to waste!”

As they walked through the tangled thicket, vines twisting and weaving in a way Skout found beautiful and awe-inspiring, he could feel the disapproving tugs at his clothing from the rocks. He just frowned, gesturing vaguely towards them that he wasn’t changing his mind as they continued on their way. Besides, she can’t be so much of a threat if she’s so kind. She doesn’t even recognize him, that oughta count for  _ something _ .

They arrived after a walk that wordlessly bonded the two, and the Nomad got the feeling they were long friends reunited. He smiled. “Here we are.”

“Looks like nobody’s home,” she commented.

“I’m sure the Nomad has lots’a things to do,” the Nomad replied as Skout dropped her backpack to the ground, “what with him bein’ alone and all.”

“Well, either way, I think we should search the place,” Skout said, footsteps getting further from him. He hung back for just a moment, wondering again if his choice was the right choice. She was friendly enough, and he wasn’t sure what exactly it was bringing the two together, but he--

“Hey,” The Nomad went rigid. It was her voice. That shouldn’t be right, that… why’s she back? She’s not… It’s not supposed to… “You comin’?”

“Yeah,” He let out the breath he held, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as he walked towards Skout.  _ It’s just Skout. Why did he… _

“He must’ve been cooped up here for  _ ages _ ,” Skout noted, looking through some of the cabinets in the one-room home. “They say nobody’s seen him for a hundred years…”

The Nomad couldn’t find it in himself to respond, so he just nodded, leaning back against the wall.

“He must get real lonely…” another nod. “I bet he’s dying for some company.”

“I bet you’re right,” he supplied, sighing.

Skout’s tone, sympathetic, became harder and determined as something slammed into the table. “No wonder why he’s so evil!”

“What!” The Nomad jumped off of the wall, tracing his hand against the wood to find his way to where Skout stood. “Evil? What-- what’d’ya mean,  _ evil _ ? How come you’re so sure of it?”

“‘Cause Don Paragon said so,” Skout replied with self-assurance. “He says if the Nomad ain’t got nothin’ to hide, he’d turn himself in.”

“What if he ain’t as bad as you think?” The Nomad asked hollowly. “I mean… he mightn’t have any skeletons in his closet, but he just cain’t come forward. Maybe he’s just…  _ afraid _ of what would come when he’s captured.”

“He’s got nothin’ to fear if he’s innocent,” Skout put down whatever it was in her hand. “Now, I’m gonna go find Toth--I think the best next course of action is to set up an ambush.”

“Well--hold on a minute--” The Nomad said quietly as he heard Skout exit the room. He bit his lip, making his way to the door quickly, and heading to where he heard her footsteps. “Skout, wait. I have t’a tell ya somethin’.”

“Huh? What’s that, friend?” Skout asked softly, stopping, taking the Nomad’s wandering hand in her own. He adjusted their distance accordingly.

“Well--I’m sure you’ve noticed that these critter friends o’ mine aren’t like any ones you’ve seen before…”

“Yeah! It’s fascinatin’, I’ll bet the Nomad has somethin’ to do with it,” Skout supplied with awe.

The Nomad swallowed through his tight throat, taking a deep breath. “He does.”

“Well… how can you know that?” Skout questioned.

“You’ve been wonderful company, Skout, and I know you’re on the hunt an’ all, but I gotta tell ya--I ain’t been too truthful with you,” He admitted with a lump in his throat.

“What’re you gettin’ at, friend?” The ginger asked, shaking her head. She couldn’t quite piece it together. Not yet.

“It’s just… well,” The Nomad stopped again. It took everything in him to force the words out, bringing their clasped hands up so they were just a little lower than the Nomad’s shoulders. “I’m… not just some wanderer that set up camp in these brambles, I  _ chose _ it ‘cause it’s the place people’d least suspect… and I know so much ‘bout your bounty ‘cause I’m… I’m the No--”

“I’ve found you!” A strong, scary voice commanded, cutting the Nomad off from his revealing moment. He jumped immediately, taking several steps back and letting Skout’s hands go. “Nomad!”

He was overcome by a certain tightness in his chest as he heard Skout whisper, “...friend?” The Nomad felt several of his critters grab at his pants, pulling him, telling him to run, but he couldn’t find the strength to move his feet from where they’d rooted themselves in fear. “Such… a… dunderhead…” Skout murmured between the sound of something thumping.

“You’re coming with us, and no amount of trickery and magic can save you,” the extremely intimidating voice that had called out earlier said firmly. Some shuffling could be heard, and the Nomad was suddenly aware of… a great deal more people than he thought.

“Wait, I’m… No! No, I just-- I don’t want no trouble, ma’am,” He began, bringing his hands up in defense, taking some steps away from where the voice came from and shaking his head.

“Good! This’ll be easy, then,” She continued, and the next thing the Nomad heard was several quick steps on the dirt. He instinctively responded with two curt claps, trying to direct his magic at the clanking objects in Skout’s backpack, and when startled cries erupted from the group, he knew he’d made the right decision… at least, what he hoped was the right decision.

The rest of the encounter was a blur--fighting someone wasn’t something he’d had experience with, so he did his best to avoid everything thrown at him--every punch, every swipe of an axe.

Until he stumbled, falling backwards to the ground--until he realized he’d been hit by a strong fist--until he heard Skout’s yelling over the chaos, yelling to “Stop it! He’s not what you think!”

“Get out of the way, Skout,” the scarier lady’s voice growled.

“He’s not bad, Toth, I-I’ve talked to him, an’ he’s not evil!” The warmth and appreciation the Nomad felt had soon faded, rapidly replaced by the fear that the la-- Toth’s voice struck into him.

“Move out of the way,” She repeated. The Nomad felt a few taps against his shoulder and scrambled to his feet, sprinting away from where he’d been laying with his arms out in front of him in a cartoonic fashion.

Dodging and weaving through the familiar vines wasn’t a difficult task for him, until the space began to feel more… open. He slowed to a walk, breathing in then out, and stopping when he realized he was about to leave the familiar.

Standing at the edge of the unknown, the Nomad took an anxious step, feeling the sand pressed beneath his feet. He knew he had to leave, he needed to get away and  _ fast _ , but was hesitant to move so far from what he’d known. New adventures awaited, and he didn’t want to stay in his memories, but he found it hard to let go of the things that had built him up, tore him down, and remade him again as a new man.

Whistling. Singing.

Clapping--but not his own, and the pure laughter, the warm sun on his face.

Crickets at night. Little breaths, and the chill of rain that seemed minimal when he held her close.

Warm breath on his cheek, and warmer arms pressed closer to him.

Whispers of a future. Of something more than hiding, living with a brightness and a smile turned to the horizon.

He couldn’t leave that behind… right? It was all he had left of himself, all he had left of what he… could remember…

“ _ Help _ !”

The Nomad jumped, turning his head towards the sound. Silence, and the sound of flames licking the vines being all that he heard before the cry rang again.  _ It’s Skout. _

He sprinted back through the thicket, and although his critters seemed adamant that he  _ didn’t _ head back, he couldn’t find it in himself to just…  _ leave _ , especially not when a fire burned through with these people inside.

“Skout!” He called, stopping as he began to feel the heat. The realization that there was a fire burning through the brambles he’d called his home for so many years hit him, and for just a moment, the sadness that overwhelmed him found no comfort in the fact that, even if he wasn’t ready to leave, he’d have to. There wasn’t a choice.

“Over--” coughing, and the sound of something hitting the ground. “Over here!”

The Nomad rushed towards it as quickly as he could, breathing quickly and lightly to be as aware of his surroundings as possible as he skidded beneath a falling vine.

A few more steps, and he slowed, holding his breath. “Friend!” And he was off again.

As he got closer, he could hear the sounds of coughing and choking on the smoke that clouded his lungs with every sharp inhale. “Skout! Are y-- are you okay?”

“I’m fi--” Skout coughed. “I’ll be alright! We need to get Toth outta here!”

The Nomad dropped to his knees and traced his hands along the ground until he felt Toth’s arm. He took a hold of it, planting one foot firmly on the floor and heaving her over his shoulder with Skout’s help, taking Skout’s hand and racing back out as quickly as they could.

What fell in between then and now was a blur of running and the dread that he could run into something at any moment, possibly knocking him over, but it was easier with Skout’s hand in his own.

And they were out of it all, feet pushed against the sand with the late night air hung delicately around them. The Nomad caught himself from tripping, kneeling and laying Toth down gently as he heard Skout collapse next to her.

“You… saved us,” She said softly. “Thank you… friend…”

The Nomad just nodded. He couldn’t find it in him to say anything more as he rose back up to his feet, hearing as the crackling of the fires began receding. He took a deep breath in, exhaling, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he felt a certain warmth begin to rise up in his chest--an unnatural one that he didn’t quite recognize, but gave him a soothing feeling that calmed his body. The Nomad laid a hand over his chest as the feeling began to fade, leaving him as gradually as it came.

He heard the cock of a gun and froze in place, keeping extremely still, met by thick laughter. “You’ve got no place to hide, Nomad.”

“I-- I ain’t never done nothin’ to you, why do you wanna-- why’re you after me so bad?” The Nomad breathed, face crinkling as he prayed the gun wouldn’t be shot.

“So that I can prove once and for all that Red Manuel has what it takes to replace Toth as captain,” the man laughed.

“Well-- I--”

“Enough chit chat! I have you cornered, Nomad, and you will be coming back to Don Paragon with me,  _ dead or alive. _ ” He laughed--a nauseating sound--and the Nomad winced, swallowing a lump in his throat as he weighed what little choice he had. “So… what are you going to do no--” what was the cliff notes of a dramatic monologue was cut off by the sound of a thick smack, and a collapse on the sand.

The Nomad stayed in place, listening with bated breath, feeling just slightly dizzy.

Dead silence, besides the scuttling of a few of his critters, rang through the outskirts of the thicket. A rock tugged at his pants, and he let his breath go, realizing he’d be fine. Whatever happened didn’t matter so much, but he could go now and leave the place he’d began to know as his only home. His body turned outwards towards the horizon, mind clear and body shaking with anticipation. Every grain of sand and every living thing in his world told a story, and what lie out there was an old friend--not a forgotten one, but long gone--and returning to the world might feel like coming home once more.

And maybe--just maybe--he might get to know the vast desert he’d once left behind.


	2. Bliss Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He let his gloved hand rest against the wooden exterior with a weary sigh. He hoped there’d be someone there for him to talk with, or at least to set him off in the right direction instead of hopeless, aimless wandering.
> 
> ...Well, assuming they weren’t after his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m committing!! :’D

The desert was a vast, scary place for someone like the Nomad. Out of the thicket he’d called his home for so long, he could no longer tell just by taking a breath in what the sky outside was like, and the air against his exposed skin couldn’t tell him that the heat would begin to cool down in a few hours, that it would be raining soon. He’d learned the language of the wind and the song of the clouds, but they hummed a different tune out in the open--a foreign one he couldn’t quite grasp. Not yet, anyway, and it left him playing by ear with only one sensation to hold onto: _hot._

The air around him seemed to become more refined as he walked, and he slowed his pace, stopping. He listened with curious ears; the gentle creak and groan of something wooden and the sounds of a veritable ghost town were familiar in a way, despite having been so long since he’d heard anything like that. The Nomad trailed off towards the side--where he’d heard the structure’s complaints.

He let his gloved hand rest against the wooden exterior with a weary sigh. He hoped there’d be someone there for him to talk with, or at least to set him off in the right direction instead of hopeless, aimless wandering.

...Well, assuming they weren’t after his head.

The sound of something nearby crashing to the sand made him jump, backing a few feet away from where he heard it. His feet aimlessly moved before his back hit the wall of the building across the way, causing a sharp, startled inhale from the wanderer. He sighed, shaking his head, thoughts interrupted by the clicking of a lock, then pressure against his back. The shove of (what must’ve been) the door behind him pushed him out of the way, slamming against the wall as loudly as it could and leaving the Nomad wheeling around to face whoever had opened it.

“What do you want?” The voice of an elderly man asked, annoyed.

“I--uh, me?” The Nomad asked tentatively, wearing an uncomfortable smile to supplement his equally as uncomfortable stance. He could tell he was already starting off on the wrong foot.

“Yeah, you!” The Nomad flinched. “You proselytizin’? Tryin’a sling me some belly-hoo?”

“I--” The Nomad laughed awkwardly, tilting his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

A woman’s voice from inside the house asked who was there, to which the man replied, “I don’t know, Martha, he won’t tell me! He’s crafty...”

“I’m-- I ain’t tryin’a be crafty, I--” The Nomad began, bringing a hand to the back of his neck but interrupted by the woman’s voice.

“He’s just some door-to-door trickster,” the woman, Martha, picked up. “Tell ‘im we don’t want no more magazine subscriptions; we cain’t even read.”

“Well, I--” The Nomad started, interrupted _again_. He couldn’t finish his sentences in this town, apparently.

“Y’hear that, snake?” The man laughed. “We’re poor, _and_ illiterate! Joke’s on you!”

“What I’m tryin’a say, I ain’t no merchant--” The Nomad raised his hands in defense, shaking his head gently. “Just’a visitin’ your town. I don’t mean to cause ya trouble, ‘fraid I just bumped into your door.”

“Any way you spin it, boy, we don’t want non’a yer tricks!” The man spat.

The Nomad winced as the door slammed shut, taking a few steps to the side before he reached out to the wall again. He let his fingers trace the grooves and divots of the structure, following the wall. When he’d reached the end of it, he took a few steps forward and continued on when his hand met the wall of the next structure.

Instead of moving in the same direction, he switched which hand was against the wall and turned the corner. Now unsure of exactly where he was headed, he kept on until his foot kicked into the bristles of an unsuspecting broom.

The Nomad jumped, stepping backwards. “Sorry,” he mumbled reflexively before chastising himself for apologizing to a broom. He stretched his hand out towards it, but hesitated as the sounds of shifting and shuffling were heard. He called out, slightly louder than he’d intended, “Hello?”

“Heya!” A young voice called, sending the Nomad reeling back a few steps.

“Ah!” He cried, met by the laughter of the child that had caught him off guard. He smiled softly, relaxing his shoulders and laughing along. “You sure gave me a fright. How long a’you been hidin’ there?”

“‘Bout an hour,” the kid concluded, shaking something before the soft whatever-it-was hit the ground. “Say, I ain’t seen ya ‘round here before. You new in town?”

“Jus’ rolled in,” the Nomad nodded, shifting his weight to the other side.

“I could tell, not many new folk come showin’ up at our town.” Some more shuffling could be heard. “Name’s Barty, by the way. Wanna join an excitin’ project to help Bliss Hill?”

The Nomad smiled, chuckling gently at Barty’s enthusiasm. “Sure!”

“Great! But first, you gotta answer my exhaustive questionnaire,” Barty seemed very passionate about this, rummaging through some things before flipping what sounded like a page of paper. “Ready?”

“I’m ready,” the nomad replied confidently.

“Ever killed a man?”

The nomad shook his head adamantly.

“Know yer basic arithmatics?”

“You bet.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

The Nomad’s body went rigid, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “I, uh--I sure do.”

“Can you do a cartwheel?” The Nomad stepped out from the wall just a smidge--hoping he could still pull it off--and giving himself up to his instincts as he pulled off a cartwheel, grinning and laughing gently to himself with pride. “Hm…” Barty began, “Form could’ve been better.”

“I’m a lil’ rusty,” the Nomad admitted, “I ain’t done a cartwheel for a while.” He shuffled back towards where Barty was with a hand out to avoid bumping into the wall.

“Hey--I just noticed somethin’,” The Nomad started to speak, but Barty was quick to pick up where he left off. “Cain’t you see?”

The Nomad shook his head softly, bringing his arms up in a shrug. “Not since I can remember.”

“That’s good for diversity,” Barty noted. The Nomad couldn’t help but smile a little. “Okay. Last question--and the most _important_ \--got any food? Or water?”

The Nomad shook his head regretfully, sighing.

“Guess that was hopin’ for too much,” Barty sighed. “So--no food, no water, ain’t never killed a man… what _can_ you do?”

“I hoped you might ask that,” The Nomad admitted with crooked smile and a small laugh. His hand traced along the wall again until he found where the broom was laid. He took a deep breath, making a whole dramatic show of stretching his arms down and to the side with hands flexed at the wrist, preparing before he clapped twice. The little melody of magic that chimed told him it had worked (if Barty’s gasp hadn’t been telltale enough).

“Woah! You can do bonafied magic!” The child exclaimed in awe, shuffling from where he’d been to stand next to the Nomad. “What other tricks you got?”

“Well…” The Nomad began, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “‘Fraid I’ve just got the one.”

“Well, I ain’t one to complain,” Barty said with a faint, happy sigh. The Nomad giggled. “You know what? I think you passed the test, stranger.”

“I did?” The Nomad asked with a smile.

“Yeah!” Barty grabbed his hand, tugging gently. “C’mon!”

“Where we goin’?” The Nomad asked, jogging to keep up with the eager young boy leading him.

“We’re headed to introduce you ‘round!”

The two continued on for not too long before they slowed down. The wind had begun to pick up just slightly, and it was silent.

“Hm… they’re either here, or at Merry Caverns,” Barty inspected. “Hold up a second--” and an ear-piercing whistle filled the Nomad’s senses before the sounds of movement could be heard from a bit farther away.

“Barty!” A girl called--around the same age as Barty--followed by the sound of two sets of feet hitting against the sand. “Why’d you bring a stranger here? Are you under duress?”

Some patting and sharp movement could be heard from Barty, leaving the Nomad to assume a signal was being made, confirmed by another young boy’s statement. “He’s usin’ the secret code!”

“What’s he sayin’?” The girl asked.

“Either he has to go to the bathroom, or…” The boy gasped. “Operation: Bandit!”

“Consult the protocols!” The girl ordered, digging her feet into the ground audibly. The Nomad couldn’t help but smile at how thorough these plans were--they must’ve put quite a bit of time and effort into it.

“Alright… section fourteen, article C: Bandits,” the boy read aloud, “There are three types of bandits; the etymology of the word ‘bandit’ comes from the Vocaran word ‘bandito’--”

“Come _on_ , Eugene!” The girl complained. “My shootin’ arm’s gettin’ tired!”

It occured to the Nomad in that moment that maybe--just _maybe_ \--he should put his hands up. He wasn’t sure what had the potential of being shot at him, and even though it was very unlikely to be anything too dangerous (as it was being aimed by a child), he didn’t want to test it.

“There’s no protocol for that!” Eugene exclaimed as the sound of a _snap_ ; something flying through the air smacked into Barty.

“Ow!” Barty cried.

“Are you okay?” The Nomad asked, turning towards Barty with arms just slightly outstretched in concern. “What happened?”

“Another victim of bureaucracy,” Eugene solemnly commented, stamping his foot into the ground. “Curse all this red tape.”

“Aw, stuff it Eugene,” the girl huffed. “Why’d you bring him here anyway, Barty?”

Barty sighed in annoyance. “Just show them what you can do.”

“Right now?” The Nomad asked, dropping his hands back to his side, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous.

“Yeah, right now.”

The Nomad nodded, taking a breath, focusing on a rock he’d accidentally kicked a few minutes earlier and giving two crisp claps before the telltale magical chime let him know it had worked. The rock scurried to the Nomad’s foot, and he leaned down, allowing the rock to climb up into his palms. He extended his arms in front of him--towards where he’d heard the other two children--and was met with silence at first, to which he filled with a soft “Ta-dah.”

“He makes…” the girl said softly, confused, “ _baby_ rocks?”

“My pappy’s birds and bees talk didn’t cover this at all…” Eugene wondered.

“No, you dolts-- he brings things to _life_ ,” Barty said, explaining so the Nomad wouldn’t have to. “With _magic_.”

The Nomad smiled. He felt the rock being lifted from his hands and let his arms rest at his sides again.

“You know what that means?” Barty asked them. Wordlessly, the Nomad got the idea that they did, indeed, know what that meant. “Stranger, it’s time I told you our purpose. We’re…”

And all three children in unison called out, “The Mill Preservation Society!”

“All them long-legged grown-ups forgot about the mill when the water stopped flowin’,” the girl began,

“But we’re the future of this here town, and we’re gonna do whatever we can to get that mill turnin’ again!” Eugene picked up.

“To _heck_ with the grown-up establishment!” Barty finished with passion. “Our livelihoods depend on it!”

“We ain’t hooli-gans,” the girl said fiercely, “we’re hooli- _cans_!”

The Nomad grinned, balling his fists and bouncing up and down for a moment before bringing one hand to his temple in a salute and the other to his hip. “How can I help?”

“Here they are, sheriff,” the voice of a teenage boy startled the Nomad--he hadn’t even heard him approaching.

“Hold it right there, long-legs!” the girl barked defensively, and all three children could be heard skittering around.

“Barty,” an adult man sighed, “somehow I knew I’d find out you were the reason for these dunderheads complaining.” The man--the sheriff, maybe?--shifted so he was facing away from the Nomad and his company. “Looks like my fool boy led you lot on a goose chase. Ain’t no magic here; that’s only gonna bring us more problems.”

The Nomad started to say something, but cut himself off when he heard Barty’s voice. “But pa! He _is_ doing magic, and it ain’t bad!”

The Nomad held his breath as Barty’s pa spoke again. “Stranger, I’m only gonna say this once: take your dark magic and get out of here.”

“Can do,” the Nomad seceded with a nod and a hand tipping the brim of his hat, “sorry to’ve caused you folks trouble.” And he began to walk away.

“He ain’t a stranger, he’s my friend!” Barty called, grabbing the Nomad’s hand and tugging him down slightly. The Nomad felt himself smile and he couldn’t help but laugh a little, listening to hear Barty’s pa’s reaction. “His magic can help the whole town. In fact, he’s gonna bring back the old mill!”

“I-- I’m _what_?” The Nomad asked, taking a step back as Barty let go of his hand. “I-- I cain’t do that!”

“Why not?” Barty asked You brought the rocks to life. I know you can do it.”

The Nomad shook his head rapidly. “The rocks’re simple; they’re _small_ an’ easier to bring to life. The mill…” The Nomad trailed off, picking up a moment later, “the mill’s somethin’ an awful lot bigger than a rock, I just-- I don’t think I can do it.”

“Barty, get away from him,” Barty’s pa warned.

The Nomad winced at that, murmuring beneath his breath, “I ain’t gonna hurt the kid, y’know…”

“Just let him try, it could change _everything_!” Barty defended. “I don’t care what anybody says about magic.”

There was a slight silence before it was clear what they wanted the Nomad to do. He laughed awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders up. “...Mind pointin’ me in the direction of the mill?”

Barty took his hand, and when the Nomad began to feel the cooler shadows fall around him, he gave Barty a nod to show he was ready. He took a deep breath, reaching his hands up, focusing himself… _clap clap._

After a moment’s pause the mill’s creaking in the wind was the only thing he heard, soon followed by the disappointed sigh of Barty’s pa. “Alright, Barty, time to run along.”

But there it was. Delayed, sure, but the shimmering chimes of a spell gone right were tell enough. The Nomad smiled softly.

“See, pa? It’s working!” Barty laughed. “I knew he could do it!”

“I knew you had a few screws loose, Barty, but this is bad medicine,” Barty’s pa sounded distrusting, and if the Nomad didn’t know any better, he might say he sounded a little bit afraid. “We can’t have the mill acting on its own like this, it’ll bring the wrong sorts to Bliss Hill.”

Loud creaking was the next thing the Nomad heard. He tensed his shoulders as the mill began to make cracking sounds, and he gasped, taking a few running steps forward and clapping his hands again. “Wait-- stop!”

Despite his claps and pleas, a final, loud _crack_ was heard. The next thing he realized was that the mill had rolled over him, and from the sound of it, was wreaking havoc on the town of Bliss Hill. He stood, brushing off his clothes and yanking the brim of his hat down with either hand.

“You broke it!” The other boy in the Mill Preservation Society yelled, smacking something towards the floor.

“You’re lucky I don’t string you up right where you stand!” Barty’s pa barked.

The Nomad’s distressed posture supplemented the upset and repentant tone his voice took on as he raised his hands in defense. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just wanted to help--”

“Get out of here--don’t never come back!”

The Nomad swallowed a lump in his throat and took two steps backwards before he dropped his arms, turning to leave.

Back out into the vast loneliness of the land once more, his feet dragged by in the sand, leaving a trail behind him only to be disturbed by the winds sweeping through the deserts of nowhere. The air cooled as the setting sun nestled beneath the horizon, and the Nomad hugged himself as the only friend he could count on, sighing with a heavy heart.


	3. Trouble on Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh no, don’t cry! Don’t cry,” The Nomad was quick to comfort, holding his hands vaguely in front of his chest as he approached the sounds, pulled into a tight hug by the Sheriff as soon as he stepped near enough.
> 
> “I... came here to ask somethin’ of you,” the Sheriff said, worry in his voice.
> 
> The Nomad hesitated as he was released from the Sheriff’s grip. He was getting a bad feeling about this. “What is it?”
> 
> “There’s a real bull of a bounty hunter in town and he’s fixin’ to cause all sorts of trouble…” The Sheriff let go of the Nomad. “That is, unless… we turn you in.”

When he’d felt the cool of a shadow from the vast rock formations drift down upon him, he walked forward until his fingertips met sediment, detailing the layers until the surface began to dip in. The space around him became smaller, echoes of gentle footsteps and noises of small animals floating from wall to wall and back into his senses letting him know that he wasn’t entirely alone. The Nomad pushed his palm against the walls of the cavern, tracing back a ways until he felt comfortable taking a seat, pressed against the rock, head tilted back.

“I hope I didn’t cause those kind folk too much trouble...” the Nomad murmured to no one in particular, sighing.

He stayed there in a dazed trance, saddened by the thoughts drifting through his head and discouraged by the ever-present memories of the town; he hadn’t quite realized how much of a blessing knowing nothing could be. The Nomad took a deep breath in and exhaled through his mouth, letting himself make a slight vocal testament to his apathy.

His hand trailed along the floor next to him, moving across two smooth rocks and curling around one. For just a moment he thought he might bring them to life, but he stopped, shoulders drooping as the sounds of the old mill barreling through town haunted him. He shuddered, letting go of the rock and instead resolved to stand back up, moving along the wall towards the entrance to the cave. He needed some fresh air.

“Thought I might find you up here,” the gentle voice of the Sheriff comforted.

“Oh!” The Nomad jumped, startled, letting his hand slip from the wall once he’d made it to the mouth of the cavern. “You-- you did?”

“Mary Caverns is one of Barty’s favorite spots… besides the mill.”

“I think he mentioned that,” the Nomad said softly. The Sheriff was being awful nice for having run him out of town but… hours ago? A day ago?  _ How long had gone by? _

“If only, I…” the Sheriff’s voice wavered before he burst into tears.

“Oh no, don’t cry! Don’t cry,” The Nomad was quick to comfort, holding his hands vaguely in front of his chest as he approached the sounds, pulled into a tight hug by the Sheriff as soon as he stepped near enough.

“I... came here to ask somethin’ of you,” the Sheriff said, worry in his voice.

The Nomad hesitated as he was released from the Sheriff’s grip. He was getting a bad feeling about this. “What is it?”

“There’s a real bull of a bounty hunter in town and he’s fixin’ to cause all  _ sorts _ of trouble…” The Sheriff let go of the Nomad. “That is, unless… we turn you in.”

“ _ What _ ?” The Nomad’s voice cracked as he took a few steps back, hands now up in a defensive manor. “You-- you gonna give me over to ‘im? I don’t-- I don’t--”

“Please,” he pleaded, “I’ve got nowhere left to go. “The Ranch Hand is beyond this old man, and he’s got my boy!”

“Barty?” The Nomad asked, bringing a hand to cover his mouth. “Oh…”

“I know you ain’t got cause to do me favors after how I treated you…” The Sheriff shifted around, and the Nomad shook his head softly. “...but if not for me, do it for Barty.”

“I’m-- I jus’-- I can’t jus’ turn myself in, I--” The Nomad fought to catch his breath as his mind worked quicker than he could process. “D’you know what’ll happen to me if I get caught?” He shook his head again, but with more force and purpose this time. “Is there another way? I-- another option, a choice, a bargain, or… or I…”

“You caused us a whole mess of trouble without meanin’ to, stranger,” the Sheriff began, stepping forward and letting his hand drop down onto the Nomad’s shoulder. “Ever thought what might happen if you started some trouble on purpose?”

“Trouble on purpose?” The Nomad echoed. “I… I ain’t a fighter, I’ve never been...”

“I believe you can do it.”

The Nomad pursed his lips and stayed quiet, letting every sort of thought rush through his mind before he nodded firmly with clenched his fists. “I think... I can manage a lil’ somethin’.”

 

“The Nomad’s here!” An old man chimed as the outlaw approached the town, stopping at what he hoped was a comfortable distance. The Nomad wore a smirk, feet planted a little wider than shoulder distance and hands confidently at his sides.

“Howdy there, Nomad,” a gravelly voice laced with cockiness and expectancy greeted, sending chills down the Nomad’s spine.

“Howdy there... Ranch Hand,” he countered, hoping that was indeed who he spoke to.

“I hope you’re here to turn yourself in,” The Ranch Hand said.

The Nomad ground his foot into the dirt, resting his fists against his hips. “Keep hopin’.”

“You’re gonna risk a fight over  _ this _ lot?” The Ranch Hand chuckled. “‘Way I heard, they don’t even like you much.”

“They don’t…?” The Nomad mumbled, shoulders sinking with his chest. He was quick to bounce back up, straightening his posture and shaking his head. “If you’re causin’ them trouble, I don’t care what they think o’ me, I oughta help the best I can.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s see if your magic is as good as they say,” The revving of an engine could be heard. For a moment, the Nomad wondered if he’d made the right choice.

“Nomad! Use your magic on his arm!” Barty called, followed swiftly by a  _ thud _ and gentle groan.

The Nomad tensed, reaching his hands in front of him.  _ Was it a metal arm? It had to be. Right? _ And clapped twice. The telltale chime of magic was heard, but the way the Ranch Hand chuckled told him it wasn’t quite as intended.

“Fancy trick,” he complimented, dripping with sarcasm. “But your aim’s off, partner.”

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Barty shouted. “I said his  _ arm _ , not the  _ knife _ !”

“I’m tryin’!” The Nomad countered, “It ain’t exactly easy!”

He huffed and shook his hands out for a moment before clapping twice more, this time with intensified purpose. The chime was heard again, but the Ranch Hand’s sigh paired with something flying through the air told him that,  _ again _ , it hadn’t gone as planned. He shrugged his shoulders and forearms up in panic. “What do I do!”

“I dunno! Run?” Barty replied, equally as panicked.

“Good luck runnin’ from  _ this _ !” The Ranch Hand called out. The Nomad ducked to the floor as the sweeping metal arm blew over his head, barely grazing his hat.  _ It extends! _ He jumped back up, posture straight despite his wobbly knees.

“That the best you got?” The Nomad challenged, hoping it was.

The Ranch Hand laughed, “Not even close,” and the sounds of metal grinding together accelerated rapidly in his direction once more. The Nomad didn’t quite have enough time to process this before it smacked into his side, sending him through a set of saloon doors and  _ thump _ ing against the bar inside. He breathed quickly, planting a hand against the bar top and vaulting behind it for a spot to hide. A few rapid claps and he ducked down, hoping his hat wouldn’t be visible.

The saloon doors opened and a pair of footsteps stomped against the wood flooring. The Nomad held his breath as the sounds of the piano played a ragtime tune, shuddering and rocking against the floor. Confused, on-the-defense sounds could be clearly heard from the Ranch Hand.  _ Got ‘im. _

The Nomad took a chance and clapped in-time to the music, bringing a few glass cups and bottles resting against the bar top (and maybe something else) to life as they moved around. A firm  _ thud _ was heard and the Ranch Hand made sounds of protest and confusion as the Nomad tried to think of a way out.  _ How hard can this be? Just think! _

As if solely to spite him, the floor creaked when the Nomad tried to move from his hiding spot. He froze, hoping the Ranch Hand hadn’t heard.

The Nomad knew he was a goner when a metal hand clamped around his shawl. He cried out as he was lifted from his hiding place and slammed straight through the floorboards, hitting the sand below as the wind knocked out of him. He tried desperately to breathe, rolling so he would be hidden by the floorboards as he crawled on his forearms. The metal fist smashed through the wooden planks everywhere except where the Nomad was. He could feel the panic rising in his chest.  _ This is a lot harder than I thought. _

The Nomad breathed a sigh of relief as the sand warmed beneath him. He shimmied out, standing as quickly as he could to listen for any sign of the Ranch Hand, and instead being met by the tense air that had built up in the town square.

The doors to the saloon swung open with a crisp  _ whack _ , and the heavy footsteps of the Ranch Hand pushed against the floor a bit too eagerly. “You done runnin’?”

“Not quite,” The Nomad said, grinding his foot into the sand. The Ranch Hand took several steps forward, and the Nomad held his ground until he heard the grinding of the metal arm once more. He bent his knees and ran towards the sound, ducking, grabbing the metallic wrist and sliding against the floor, through his attacker’s legs. How knew where to dive was pure luck, and the Nomad sure wasn’t complaining.

As anticipated, the Ranch Hand kicked up sand and flipped underneath himself, hitting the floor with a large grunt. What wasn’t expected, however, was the backlash as the Nomad kept the arm firm in his grasp. The shoulder retracted at high speeds and smacked the Nomad in the face, sending him reeling back to trip over the steps to the saloon. He gripped the arm tightly as he realized  _ he’d just torn this man’s metal arm out. _

“Sorry!” He called, dropping the arm to the ground and stepping back before clapping. This time, once the magic chime was heard, it was completely silent afterwards. No more jingles, no sounds of movement.  _ Well, that’s helpful. _

Heavy footsteps beat into the sand, and a growl that was no doubt the Ranch Hand sent chills up the Nomad’s spine. He backed up until he hit the wall, tensing as he felt a shadow cast across his body. It moved for a moment, but with the rustling of some metal, it was back and looming over him dangerously. “I have had it up to  _ here _ with your shenanigans!”

“Could you… give me an estimate, about  _ where _ ?” The Nomad laughed softly, slouching to make himself smaller as he pressed harder against the wall. “I have a hard time readin’ body language.”

“That’s enough!” The Ranch Hand spoke sharply, and the Nomad shut his mouth. “Now, it’s time to collect that bounty on you.” The Ranch Hand stepped back, and the Nomad brought his chin to his chest to brace for whatever action would be taken. “I said…  _ you _ !” The Ranch Hand emphasized.

“...Uh, pardon?” The Nomad asked with a cheeky smile, tilting his head back up. A little noise came from the man in front of him as the pieces of the metal arm ground together. “Someone mind ‘splainin’ what’s goin’ on?”

The sound of something metal smacked against flesh, and the thud that followed it was the Ranch Hand’s body hitting the floor with a shout of surprise. This smacking sound was heard a few more times before the Ranch hand cried, “I give in! I give!”

The Nomad jumped when something tugged at his pants. He reached down and his hand lay against the cool metal of the Ranch Hand’s arm. He gave a soft, “Oh,” before the scene he’d just interpreted began to make more sense.

The arm tugged at his leg again with more urgency than before, and just somehow, he seemed to know what his little friend was trying to say.

He giggled, “Go nuts.”

The sound of an engine revving was heard before heavy bootsteps pounded against the sand with a scream, further and further away from the town and, presumably, closely followed by the arm.

“Check please,” the Nomad laughed gently, giving an awkward smile and a shrug of his shoulders. The townsfolk cheered, and he smiled, standing a little taller.

“That was so smart of you to figure out you couldn’t use your magic on his arm until he wasn’t holdin’ it no more!” Barty jogged towards the Nomad, speaking with a smile in his voice.

The Nomad processed this for a moment too long before he nodded, smiling. “Yes. I did think that out, an’ I knew that was the best course o’ action.”

 

The town had begun cleanup after the whole fight, but insisted that the Nomad sit back and relax as they did so--he’d been through a lot for the town. He took a seat under an awning, leaning back into his hands placed on either side of the crate below him. The smile he wore never left his face as he took a minute to breathe, thinking about the things he’d just done.

He hadn’t heard the Sheriff approach, but it didn’t startle the Nomad when he began to talk. “You really did a number on that bounty hunter.”

“T’wasn’t my intention,” the Nomad laughed, “but I’m just glad Bliss Hill’s safe.”

“That’s kinda what I came to talk t’ya about,” the Sheriff cleared his throat, and the Nomad shifted so he was sitting up, showing his attentiveness. “We ‘ppreciate all the help, but… Bliss Hill ain’t had magic since before I was born, and I’m afraid with you around we’d attract too much attention.”

The smile fell from his face. “You… want me to go?”

“I’m sorry,” the Sheriff sighed. “You saved us, and that’s a debt I’ll never be able to pay back, but I think it’s best for us all if you left.”

The Nomad’s shoulders drooped, and his heart sank. “Oh.”

“Don’t tell Barty,” The Sheriff shifted his weight, and the discomfort in his voice was obvious. “Please.”

The Nomad drew a deep breath in, holding it at the top of his lungs before sighing out. He pushed himself up from his seat on the crate and offered the Sheriff a small wave, smiling as brightly as he could. “Thanks for everythin’, Sheriff. I hope we’ll meet again someday.”

And with that, he turned his back on the town, counting his footsteps to keep his mind busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had fun rewriting the nomad/ranch hand fight lmao, i hope it's not difficult to follow 'cause it's hard to explain what i envisioned


	4. The Twindleweed Brothers Travelling Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, close to mid-afternoon, the sounds of the landscape faded out as music drifted through the air. Distant laughter and passionate chatter mixed with the scent of melted butter and sugar caught the Nomad’s attention.
> 
> That sounds like fun.

During the daytime, the desert wasteland was unforgiving. Windy and humid, sharp and unfeeling, blisteringly hot and above all  _ dangerous. _

During the daytime, aimless wandering with no sense of direction was what the Nomad had been reduced to, feeling as though he was forever approaching an unattainable goal with an abstract sense of danger following him wherever he stepped.

In the daytime, he was haunted with the knowledge that each step he made could be his last, that everywhere he moved was  _ wrong _ . He couldn’t go anywhere without these thoughts weighing down his consciousness like a thousand bales strapped to his back.

Bleak and afraid, the Nomad pressed on. His feet trudged through the unstable footholds he dug in the sand as the distinct scent of trouble waiting to happen propelled him through the emptiness ahead. The days came by all too quickly, chance after chance to be captured slipping through the cracks of luck as he pushed onwards and into the horizon.

But at night, the desert was soft, cool, and shaded. The moisture in the air seemed to relax and comfort the Nomad, reminding him that he was okay, and he didn’t need to worry so much. The sand parted beneath the gentle push of his feet to allow an easier trek forward, helping to relieve the weight on his tired shoulders in hopes of a better tomorrow.

At night, it felt like a home so much safer than four walls. He couldn’t quite place what was so attractive of the sandy earth around him, but at night, the sounds and smells guided him, aided by the direction of the wind and he knew that after he took flight to the desert sky, he’d land wherever Mother Nature would need him next.

And at night, the sensuous scents of the desert delighted the Nomad, a sweet and dusty aroma that left him dreaming of a place so familiar, yet so far gone. If he took a deep breath, he could almost hear… something, but nights of trying have taught him to take what little of the faraway memory he could get. For just a moment, he would wonder what it was nagging at his mind, but he knew that all things came in due time.

One day, close to mid-afternoon, the sounds of the landscape faded out as music drifted through the air. Distant laughter and passionate chatter mixed with the scent of melted butter and sugar caught the Nomad’s attention.

_ That sounds like fun. _

A smile painted itself onto his face as he approached the sounds and scents, slouched posture perking upwards in curiosity and excitement. Burdens on his back, worry of capture--all of that could be set aside for a few minutes so he could take the time to relax.

When he’d gotten into the thick of things, he could hear lots of people chatting indistinguishably while children laughed, running around. He seemed to ghost through the crowd as people disregarded his presence--perhaps for the best. As much as he would’ve enjoyed conversation, he knew that it would probably be better to stay off of everybody’s radars.

“There you are!” A voice with a vague and indiscernible accent grumbled. A small hand grabbed the Nomad’s wrist, pulling him off to the side with the strength of a child. A  _ strong _ child.

“Hey!” The Nomad cried out, jerking free of the stranger’s grip.

“Jeez, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice grumbled. “But, c’mon, what’s the idea? What took you so long?”

“...Beg your pardon?” The Nomad asked, tilting his head to the side.

“You’re  _ late _ ,” the man sighed. “I don’t have  _ time _ for this.”

The Nomad started to say something, but was cut off when the same hand from earlier (along with another one of the same source) was placed flatly on his lower back, pushing him somewhere else. He dug his feet into the ground and straightened his legs, but whoever it was steering him seemed undeterred by that.

By the time the Nomad had managed to find his voice again, he was in an enclosed… tent, and had thoroughly exhausted all possible excuses before they even reached his lips. “Hold-- hold up, mister. I’m sorry, but--”

“Y’know, you really oughta be saving your voice for the show, kid. You’ll need to project ‘cause it looks like we have a full house today.” The Nomad opened his mouth in protest before promptly closing it, letting the other continue. “You practiced the lines I mailed you, right?”

_ Oh no. That’s what this was.  _ The Nomad brought up both hands in front of him with a polite smile, shaking his head. “No, no, I think there’s been a mistake. I ain’t uh-- well, I ain’t no stage performer.”

“That’s the spirit! Way to get in character.”

“Wait-- that’s not--”

“Perfect accent, by the by. It’s  _ exactly _ how I pictured, though you may wanna play it up a tad just to exaggerate. You know how stage functions go.”

“...sure do,” The Nomad agreed, defeated.

“Fix your clothes, they look terrible.”  _ Ouch. _ “Trixie’ll come and getcha before your cue.”

And with that, the Nomad heard nothing but the sound of the gentle wind flapping the material making up the sides of the tent. He was all alone, supposed to be getting ready for…  _ something _ . That involved him being a performer. In front of a crowd and on a stage. The very thought made the Nomad’s stomach knot.

He brought his hand down at the corner of something wooden, running his hands along it and over the surface. It was a dresser, displaying products meant to smooth the hair, pamper the face, and… other things he didn’t recognize, along with mirrors and brushes. 

A quick tour of the rest of the tent to sate his curiosity revealed that there was a rack of clothing across from the dresser, as well as an undressed mannequin next to the clothes.

That brushed away whatever doubts he had--he was going to perform.

There were going to be a lot of people.

They’d be watching him play a part he’d had no preparation for.

_ Oh no. _

In front of the dresser was a stool which the Nomad sat down on, restlessly drumming his fingers against the wood as butterflies rose within him.  _ I could run. If I left now, they probably wouldn’t even see me go. _

His compassion chimed in, and he bit his lip nervously.  _ But… then their show might be ruined. That’d be awful rude. _

“Damn it,” he whispered softly, letting his palm rest against the dresser.

“You okay?” a woman asked. He turned towards her, startled from his thoughts.

“Uh…” The Nomad began, mind blanking as it refused to formulate something more intelligent to say.  _ Is that Trixie? _

“First time?” She asked, coming closer. The Nomad just laughed, shaking his hands to disagree. He knew saying something in the negative would dismiss whatever credibility these people thought he had, so he stayed quiet for the time being. “Then, let’s go. What’s the hold-up?”

Trixie figured he couldn’t see much through his blindfold (she was more correct than she knew) so she took him by the wrist, guiding him where he needed to be. “Remember: when Bailey says ‘It’s the Dreaded Nomad’ or whatever he’s sayin’ this time aroun’, you pop out from behind the curtains and say your thing. Good luck.”

He was going to be playing the part of himself.  _ Oh no. _

“Wait, I--” The Nomad cut himself off, hands fidgeting with each other as the knots in his stomach tightened and twisted.  _ I shoulda left earlier.  _ “I can’t do it.”

“Well, this ain’t your first show, so how’s it any different?” The Nomad just smiled, laughing gently in attempt to clear up the awkward air he’d created for himself. Trixie sighed. “Just get it done.”

And before the Nomad knew it, he was alone backstage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages! Welcome to the Twindleweed Bros. Circus!” Boomed the voice of the man from earlier, probably Bailey. The Nomad tried and failed to gauge the size of the tent he was in, and failed to get a good perception of how many people were in attendance. It was probably a lot.

If he had to pretend to be himself (what a weird thought), he’d have to be accurate. But not too accurate. He’d have to be what everyone assumed he’d be, and far enough removed from himself to dismiss all suspicion that he really  _ was _ The Dreaded Nomad.

_ This can’t be good. I can’t do this. _

_...but then the show won’t go on. They’re countin’ on me, even if they don’t know it’s the real me. _

“But what’s this? I sense a  _ dark energy _ in this tent today…” Bailey  _ (that’s his name, right?) _ said, dedicated to whatever character he’d set up. “I fear we may be in danger.”

_ It can’t be that bad. Stickin’ it out and just performin’ can’t be that bad. Right? _

“It’s the Nomad of Nowhere!”

_ That’s my cue! _ The Nomad made a split second decision and parted the curtains with a dramatic flourish, flexing his fingers to mimic claws. “Rawr!”

The audience erupted into laughter, and the barring of his teeth turned to a sheepish smile as he realized exactly how large a  _ ‘full house’ _ was. A lot of people. With their eyes on him only. He planted his feet firmly into the ground in attempt to counter the dizzying feeling that overwhelmed him.

The laughter turned to  _ boo _ ing, and the Nomad’s shoulders drooped.  _ People really don’t like me. _

He swallowed a lump in his throat as Bailey called out to the audience, searching for a brave soul to help fight against the Nomad. He felt like he wanted to shrink into himself.  _ This wasn’t a good decision. _

A girl with a sweet Southern accent made her way to the stage, laughing along the way. As Bailey encouraged her.

“Alright, Nomad! I’m gonna take you  _ down _ !” The girl cheered, followed by applause and subtle laughter from the audience.

“ _ Skout _ ?” The Nomad blurted, recognizing the voice. He covered his mouth with a hand, but it didn’t help--he was busted.

“ _ Nomad _ ?” Skout asked incredulously. The sound of something clattering to the floor and a gasp from the audience broke the silence. “What-- what’re you doin’  _ here _ ?”

“I…” The Nomad started, taking a slow step backward.

“ _The_ _actual_ _Nomad of Nowhere_?” Bailey asked in disbelief.

“Uh,” The Nomad smiled sheepishly, shrugging his hands upwards with a laugh. The crowd held their breath as the Nomad’s mind tried and failed to come up with something to say, other than a simple, “Howdy.”

A woman shrieked, and the stadium erupted into chaos. Noises only attributed to frantic shuffling of fancy outfits and panicked stomps of new shoes filled the tent.

“Everybody, please! Remain calm and make your way to the exits!” Bailey instructed. The Nomad tried to yell something over the noise, but the sounds were lost as panic consumed him.

“ _ Nomad _ !” A voice immediately recognizable at Toth called from the audience, clearly heard over the mess of yelling patrons scrambling away from the presumed danger.

“Toth!” The Nomad called back. He laughed nervously, shoulders tensing as heavy and distinctly angry footsteps accelerated in his direction. “Well, fancy that! And here I was thinkin’ you didn’t wanna come to my big show; glad to hear you had a change of heart.”

Skout gave a chuckle, but that was about all the recognition his clever quip had gotten. The Nomad tensed his body as Toth came dangerously close, but he held his ground, hoping he wasn’t waiting too long.

When the footsteps stopped and Toth gave a grunt, the Nomad dove to the side, rolling against the floor and barely missing the decisive blade of Toth’s axe. He used his momentum to hop back up, bolting to the curtains with his arms out before he smacked into a rather tall someone that didn’t seem like Toth.

The next thing he knew, a fist collided with his face, sending him flying backwards to smack against the floor. He let out a yelp, bringing a hand to cradle his face as he scrambled to his feet. Panic rose in his chest as he realized Toth and Skout weren’t the only ones out to collect his bounty.

He turned to sprint in a different direction until a gun fired at his feet. Hopping to avoid the bullets, the Nomad moved backwards to trip over something small. Before his body hit the ground, he was tied up tightly with rope that wasn’t about to let him slip.

“Gotcha,” the voice he remembered as Trixie said, presumably punctuating it with some visual stunt lost on him.

“Hand him over and I’ll make sure we’re all rewarded equally,” Toth said in an authoritative voice that scared the Nomad to no end.

“Lady, we ain’t handing nothin’ to you,  _ we _ caught him.” Bailey snapped.

“Or--” The Nomad laughed, “Or, hear me out, you could just  _ let _ me--”

“Shut up,” Toth and Bailey said in unison. The Nomad shut his mouth, nodding to show that he’d understood as the conversation excluding him escalated.

As they bickered, the Nomad slowly sat up, wriggling his shoulders to loosen the ropes as discreetly as possible. All seemed to be going well until--

“Uh-- excuse me?” Skout interjected, unable to get her message through to the arguing parties. The Nomad wiggled faster as the spittoon girl repeated with more force, “Ex _ cuse  _ me!”

“Hey!” Toth called out. The Nomad rolled to the side preemptively, and the axe that would’ve cleaved him in the chest stuck into the ground, narrowly missing him. He felt the ropes slacken and he hopped to his feet, sprinting through the curtain and backstage.

Miraculously, the Nomad found his way back to the dressing room, darting behind the clothing rack and remaining as still as he could. Footsteps passed him and circled back to pass him a second time, and the frustrated slamming of a boot into the ground made the Nomad wince. He held his breath until the steps were out of earshot and snuck out of the tent, digging his feet into the hot desert sands and pushing off again.

To run into the horizon beneath the cruel sun was to throw himself back into the unforgiving wasteland, hot and dreary with aimless and indefinite wandering plaguing him as an abstract concept he wouldn’t ever catch up to.

But he knew nighttime and its comforts would come soon enough, swaddling him in the cool breeze and wiping his worries away like tears shed in the arms of someone who cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>


	5. The Kindness of Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” the stranger observed, “that seems like you’re in a bit of trouble.”
> 
> “A might bit,” The Nomad replied with a rapid shake of his head. “They wanna-- they’re tryin’a catch me. Pardon me for the suddenness, but is there anywhere ya could point me to where I can hide, or at least which way I should keep runnin’?”
> 
> “If you want, you can hide in this here coffin ‘til they pass by.”

Endless wandering through the vast sands left the Nomad with an abundance of time to think.  _ Why was it he’d never left the briar patch until that day? _

He knew that while he was there, he felt a certain affinity for the spot, something soft that stopped him from going anywhere. Even though there wasn’t any clear rhyme or reason to it, he stayed for quite a while… up until he was found, at least.

From what he knew back then, the world outside of the thicket was dangerous.He had too many opportunities to be caught when he was out in the open desert, and it wouldn’t be hard for a searching soul with an eye on his bounty to spot him. Now that the Nomad had been wandering the desert for some time, he knew that there wasn’t danger lurking around every corner, or at least, not as much as he’d expected. It could even be considered  _ easy _ to avoid trouble, so long as it didn’t manifest by his own hands and so long as he didn’t interact with too many folk, which… although lonely, was manageable.

So it had to be something else.  _ But what? _

Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice when gentle sounds of horse hooves trotting through the desert turned sour, both heavy in his direction and hot on his trail. He slowed for just a moment, gauging where they were coming from. With the urgency of the galloping horses, the Nomad surmised that they could only be--

_ Bounty hunters. _

His foot slipped in the sand but he regained his balance in time to set off sprinting in the opposite direction. He could tell that the two were still far enough away that if he tried hard enough, he  _ might _ be able to find someone or something to hide wi--

His thoughts were cut short as he smacked into something about as tall as his chest, bouncing back and hitting the sand to knock the wind out of him.

“Woah. Slow down there, friend,” a stranger’s voice said with a smile he could hear. “You look scared half to death--and I’d know.”

The Nomad didn’t have time to figure out what that meant. He pushed himself up to standing, momentarily unable to do anything but point backwards at where he could assume the horses were.

“Well,” the stranger observed, “that seems like you’re in a bit of trouble.”

“A might bit,” The Nomad replied with a rapid shake of his head. “They wanna-- they’re tryin’a catch me. Pardon me for the suddenness, but is there anywhere ya could point me to where I can hide, or at least which way I should keep runnin’?”

“If you want, you can hide in this here coffin ‘til they pass by.” A hand slapped against the sturdy wood of what the Nomad could assume was the coffin, perched upon the cart he’d just run into.

“Coffin?” The Nomad echoed with a slight gasp, trying to hide his initial shock to be polite. “Are you-- are ya some sort of Undertaker?”

“Indeed I am,” the Undertaker replied with audible charm.

The Nomad’s gut told him that the Undertaker had something else that caused him to be so friendly, but as the sound of hooves against the sand began to get closer, he realized that he didn’t have a choice.

Besides, you should be able to trust in the kindness of strangers, right?

By the time he’d hopped into the coffin atop the cart and the lid shut over him horse hooves skid across the sand, no doubt kicking up a large dust cloud behind them.

“Hello!” A cheery country accent said.  _ Oh. It’s them. _

“Skout, please,” Toth said. She wasn’t playing games, nor was she  _ ever _ . “You there--Undertaker, have you seen anyone come by this way?”

“We’re lookin’ for a bounty!” Skout chimed in.

“A bounty?” The Undertaker asked. “How curious. Pray tell, what makes this ‘bounty’ of yours so special?”

“It’s the Nomad of Nowhere, the only feller with bonafied magic!”

“ _ Skout _ .”

“Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, the point is:” Toth’s intimidating,  _ terrifying _ voice was  _ very _ audible through the walls of the coffin. It made a familiar sense of panic bubble up in the Nomad’s chest, and it took everything in him not to make a run for it. “Have you seen him?”

“I sure have.” The Nomad held his breath as he prepared to run in the event that he had to make a hasty escape. “He ran off that way.”

The Nomad let his breath go quietly.

“Thank you!” Skout cheered. Toth huffed, and both horses set off once more.

The galloping of the horseshoes against the grains of sand moved further and further away, and once they were almost entirely out of earshot, the Undertaker spoke in a soft voice. “It’s alright, friend, you can come out now.”

The Nomad pushed at the lid of the coffin, sitting upright and offering a smile in the direction he thought the Undertaker was in. “Thanks fer havin’ my back.”

“It’s no trouble,” The Undertaker chuckled. “These parts of Nowhere are  _ crawlin’ _ with bounty hunters--I’d reckon you didn’t know that.”

“Can’t say I did,” The Nomad’s smile fell.

“It’s great for business, but trouble for you.” The Undertaker sighed. “Say, I’m headed West now--night’s approachin’ soon, and I’ll be gettin’ out of here for now. If you wanted, I could take you with me, at least as far as the next town.”

“Oh, well--” The Nomad laughed. “I couldn’t ask you to do all that.”

“It’s no trouble, really, I’m headed this way anyhow.”

“If it’s really no trouble…” The Nomad said softly.

“I insist.”

“Alright,” The Nomad smiled again.

“Lay back and get comfortable, now, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  
  


“Alright, friend, you can come out now.” The Nomad pushed the coffin lid off of himself, swinging his legs over the side of the cart and coming up to standing. It felt a lot cooler than it had earlier.

If he had to guess, he’d say it was about twilight. The ride must’ve been a lot longer than it seemed.

The last thing he heard was the eery quiet of… wherever he was now, and the last thing he felt was a splitting headache and pain before everything went silent.

  
  


The Nomad gasped, body jerking awake as his senses returned to him. The first thing he noticed was the pounding ache at the back of his skull, then the damp, cold room around him--the feeling of an uncaring, disinterested wall against his back, the lack of surface beneath his feet, and the grip of what felt like skeletal hands tight around his aching wrists.

He heard a gentle laugh recognizable as the Undertaker’s, and the Nomad turned his head to face where the laughter had come from. “Hey! What-- what gives?”

“The Nomad of Nowhere…  _ unbelievable _ !” The Nomad could only imagine his words were accompanied with a smile and a shake of the head. “Now, I’m not sure what those Dandy-Lions would’ve done to you, but I promise: you’re safe with me.”

“I don’t  _ feel _ all that safe,” The Nomad retorted, sounding a little more accusatory than he would’ve liked. He kicked his feet off of the stoney surface behind him, pushing his weight outwards to try to break free from the cuffs. His worn boots slammed against the wall before pushing off again, failing to break free, all to repeat the process a third time. It might’ve just been his imagination, but the cuffs that suspended him against the wall almost felt like they were closing tighter around his wrists.

“It’s no use tryin’ to escape, those cuffs are by my own design, only opened by my…  _ skeleton _ key,” The undertaker laughed slightly at his own joke, lost on the Nomad. “Excuse the joke, I’ve never had a…  _ live _ audience before.”

The Nomad breathed out, tired from the energy it took to kick against the wall so many times as his mind raked itself to think, think,  _ think _ .

“Now, I know what you might be thinkin’:” The Undertaker began, “handcuffing you up to the wall like a prisoner might seem inhospitable,” the undertaker’s soft voice gave a laugh and the Nomad’s breath quickened in fear, “but I didn’t want you takin’ off on me before I had the chance to talk.”

The Nomad bit the inside of his lip, thinking of exactly how he wanted to phrase himself. “I have no doubt I’d be able to lend ya my time if you let me down,” He took a breath in, keeping himself level-headed. It wouldn’t do him any good to go off on his captor, regardless of how upset the situation was making him. “I won’t slip away, but I ain’t too keen on bein’ against this here wall for long.”

“No can do,  _ friend _ ,” The Nomad winced at the nickname… specifically the unsettling tones that lie beneath it. It was different than when he’d said it earlier, it felt… colder. “Sorry if living alone for as long as I have has lowered my threshold for trust, but I’d feel better if we spoke like this.”

The Nomad wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he settled on digging his heels into the wall, balancing them on a stone that barely stuck out to relieve some of the weight from his aching wrists and shoulders.  _ How long had he hung there before he woke up? _

“I’ve heard you can do some amazing things, things that have peaked my,” the undertaker’s voice softened, becoming airy and dreamlike, “ _ professional curiosity. _ ”

“I can… do a few things, yes,” the Nomad replied vaguely.

The sound of something dropping onto the table followed by the gentle  _ tink _ of a music box could be heard. “Could you show me?”

The Nomad didn’t have any choice but to oblige, clapping twice in quick succession. Music began to play from the box and the Nomad gave a gentle smile, cut short by the loud  _ slam _ of what sounded like a glass cup against the table.

“There it is!” The Nomad jumped, tensing, slipping from his balance on the rock in the wall. He couldn’t find it again.

Scraping was heard and unhinged, manic laughter bounced from wall to wall, disorienting the Nomad. “Fascinating, simply  _ fascinating! _ So curious, this ability to conjure life out of nothing!”

A little huff could be heard, and the undertaker was much closer to where the Nomad hung the next time he spoke. “But…  _ is _ this life? Is it truly? Does it have a soul? Free will? Or are these critters of yours simply slaves, animated only to do your bidding?”

“You’re talkin’ awful fast,” the Nomad cringed away from where his…  _ enthusiastic _ captor stood.

“Are they intelligent?” The undertaker continued, almost as though the Nomad hadn’t said a thing. “And to what measure? Are they extensions of you, their master? Quick, what’s the square root of nine?”

After a moment, the Nomad spoke up tentatively. “I don’t…  _ think _ I need to tell ya they don’t talk.”

“So there  _ are _ limitations,” The undertaker took a few steps away, and the Nomad found it much easier to breathe. “That’s no good, no good at all. I-- what’s that, Clarence?”

When he realized that nobody was talking, the Nomad furrowed his brow. “Who’s Clarence?”

“That  _ is _ peculiar,” the undertaker continued, completely disregarding the Nomad’s question, “Why  _ did  _ you bring the music box to life, and not the key?”

The Nomad’s jaw went slack for a moment as he processed, looking for the words he needed, and he was quick to recover. “I can’t-- I couldn’t tell what was there,” he defended, head craning down and to the side.

“Why don’t you try it again?” The Undertaker’s voice was borderline smug. The sound of something against a table was heard, and the Nomad took a breath, clapping deliberately, lips pursed in concentration.  _ The key. _

“So it’s just as I suspected,” the Undertaker hummed.

“What’d you suspect?” The Nomad asked, mostly humoring the Undertaker but partly to sate his own curiosity.

“You can’t bring life to that which it has left,” the Undertaker said simply, taking a few footsteps towards the Nomad. “The key, which is dead matter--”

“That key ain’t made of  _ bones _ , is it?” The Nomad asked, stomach feeling just a little queasy. “Your pun from earlier would start to make a whole lotta sense.”

The Undertaker just chuckled. “You couldn’t bring the key to life because it’s made out of dead matter--tough break for Clarence, though.”  _ Clarence is dead matter. _

“But that’s to be expected--noone in Nowhere can perform necromancy anymore…” The Undertaker shifted his weight gently as he spoke, “though we might be able to change that.”

“We  _ what _ now?” The Nomad interjected.

“I’ll be right back,” the Undertaker said, disregarding the Nomad’s (mostly) rhetorical ask for clarification. Footsteps ascended stairs the Nomad hadn’t realized were there, providing him with an acute realization:  _ I’m underground. _

“Hey, friend,” The Nomad whispered, hushed enough to conceal his voice yet loud enough for the music box to hear. “Grab the key.”

A few moments passed with no change in sound and the Nomad snapped his fingers twice, drawing his mouth into an unamused line. “What’re you doin’? We gotta hurry ‘fore he comes back.”

And the sound of glass scooting against the table was heard, cut short by the footsteps descending the stairs.

“That was fast,” The Nomad noted as the Undertaker finished the descent.

“I always keep it in the same place so it wasn’t hard to find,” The Undertaker explained. Before the Nomad could ask what ‘it’ was, the flipping of pages answered his question. “Only the Y’dala still harp on about the old days, before El Rey and before the magic disappeared, and this book is all I’ve been able to find on it.”

The Nomad opened his mouth as something within him stirred, but he closed it quickly. He shook his head, opting to keep it to himself.

“Now, I can’t hardly understand half of this, but that’s where you’ll come in,” The Undertaker flipped a few pages around, and his determined tone picked up speed. “With my brains, and your magic, we could  _ really _ start to do somethin’  _ good _ ...”

And he trailed off for a split second. The Nomad was acutely aware of a soft and careful clatter on the table.

“...Instead of playing  _ stupid games _ !” The Undertaker emphasized, smashing into something on the table-- _ the watch _ \--and the Nomad could feel a part of himself breaking.

“ _ No _ !” He cried out, body straining forward as his cuffs kept him back. He winced as he slowly shifted away, body tense with disbelief. His lower lip quivered, face scrunching upwards, desperately listening for any sign that it might not have been true.

“What, you feel  _ sorry _ ?” The Undertaker said, tapping his fingers against silent metal. “For  _ this _ ?”

“You  _ killed _ him…” The Nomad whispered, swallowing a lump in his throat as he let his chin drop to his chest.

“Oh,  _ please _ , it must’ve been less cruel to take the life away from it,” The Undertaker huffed. “Bringing life to inanimate objects, what  _ good _ does it--what’s that, Clarence?”

_ Clarence _ . The Nomad thought.  _ Clarence, Clarence, Clarence--there is no Clarence. Who is he talking to? _

“What an excellent question, what  _ does _ make him so special?” The Undertaker leaned close and the Nomad leaned away, all too aware that something dark was about to happen. “What does he have inside of him the rest of us  _ don’t _ ?”

Two sharp knocks coming from up the stairs pulled the Undertaker’s attention away, and he sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

The Undertaker left and the Nomad’s head drooped down, hanging limply. He took a deep breath and sighed.

The sound of glass scooting against a table lead the Nomad to raise his head slightly, listening attentively.

_ Clink, clink! _ went the music box as it hit the floor and bounced once.

“What are you…” he began, trailing off as the sound of scurrying and music faded. He sighed again, waiting for what felt like hours.

The sound of a panicked man was cut off by a loud  _ thwack _ , followed by several more in quick succession.

When the Nomad heard the music box again, he somehow knew what to do. He opened his palms, effortlessly catching the key thrown to him and unlocking the skeletal hands around his wrists. The Nomad hit the floor feet-first with a gentle  _ thud _ , collapsing to his knees and holding his palms out for the music box. “Here, jump up.”

It hopped into the Nomad’s hands and he let it sit on his shoulder. He stood up, following the wall until he made it to the stairs, climbing until he opened the door at the top.

“Now, slow down there,  _ friend _ , where do you think  _ you’re _ going?” the Undertaker laughed, breathy and controlled with just a touch of madness. The click of disabling the safety on a gun sent the Nomad’s hands flying into the air in a panic.

“Woah, woah, woah! What--what’re you  _ doin’ _ ?” He asked breathlessly.

“You aren’t leaving,” The Undertaker spoke slowly, cocking what sounded like a shotgun as the Nomad’s legs locked in place.

“What’s it to you? I’ve already told you what you wanted to hear!” The Nomad defended, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Not quite yet,” The Undertaker countered. “You and I, we can  _ do _ something! We can make history!”

“I don’t under--” The Nomad began, cut off by the Undertaker.

“Exactly! There is still so much you  _ don’t _ understand, like how I’m trying to  _ help _ you!” He insisted. The Nomad shook his head softly. “No?  _ No _ ? You’re doin’ the world  _ no _ favors by bringing life to these  _ useless trinkets! _ With my help--”

“I don’t  _ want _ your help!” The Nomad snapped. The music box on his shoulder launched off just before the shotgun was fired, and the Undertaker let out a shriek. The Nomad dove to his knees to avoid the bullets, gasping, both hands hitting the floor with a loud  _ thud _ .

A shattering was heard alongside a few half-hearted chimes of the music box, and the Nomad was overwhelmed by the dread in his stomach as a part of himself shattered again. His jaw hung open in shock as the Undertaker shuffled closer.

“Now,” The Undertaker barked, “You are going to show me your magic!”

The Nomad closed his mouth and his chin fell to his chest. He pressed his hand into the floor, moving his legs until they were beneath him, pushing his body so he stood tall. A moment of silence passed before he spoke.

“You want magic?” His head rose towards the Undertaker. His teeth gritted and his fists balled with unprecedented rage. “ _ I’ll show you magic. _ ”

He planted one foot shoulder-distance from the other, letting his joints tense as much as they needed. His arms stretched to the sides like a dutiful scarecrow, swinging inwards until his palms smacked together with a loud  _ clap _ . A beat passed by, then a second. By the time a third thrummed silently through the small home, a rattling in the floorboards and a creaking in the walls following a sweep of chiming magic evoked pitiful, audible fright from the Undertaker.

The Nomad exhaled shakily and slumped his shoulder against the wall, letting himself sink downwards and sit on the floor. He was tired, drained. The Undertaker emitted a shriek after the click of an empty gun left him unarmed.

The Nomad reached out a hand, sliding it across the floor until it came into contact with the music box… or what was left of it. Even through his gloves it felt cold and lifeless, as it was before, but the difference was that the life given to it had been taken away.

“Please!” The Undertaker screamed. “I don’t want to die!”

The Nomad bit his lip, trying his hardest not to listen, but guilt pushed and pulled at his mind restlessly.  _ It’s not right and I know it. _

He breathed in and exhaled softly, speaking only above a secret whisper. “That’s enough.”

The noises ceased except for the Undertaker’s heavy breathing and scared tears. The Nomad picked up the music box, standing with what strength his tired legs could muster. His head rose and he felt the gentle hesitance in the room, idle critters waiting for their next task. “Tie ‘im up, please. I don’t trust ‘im enough not to follow when I leave.”

The Undertaker made no resistance as far as the Nomad could tell, but then again, he wasn’t paying too much attention. His focus was on every detail of the music box, small and fragile like a bird with a broken neck. His fingers ran across every inch, memorizing the handle, the gears, the little nubs that produced a melody, knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

The air in the room became still again. The Nomad approached the shaken Undertaker with gentle footsteps, running a hand along the ropes until he was certain that they were secure. He let his hands fall to his side. “Thank you.”

Shuffling began once more as all of the friends he’d brought to life returned to their homes against the wall, on the shelf, atop the table. A wave of magical chimes shimmering across the room told the Nomad they were gone.

“I-- where did they  _ go _ ?” The Undertaker stammered. “Are they  _ gone _ ?”

“Thank you for your hospitality, but I think I’ll be goin’ now,” the Nomad trailed a hand across the table until it bumped into something. A book, likely the one the Undertaker had tried to introduce him to earlier. His hand grasped around the spine as he picked it up.

“No! No, don’t take that!” The Undertaker cried.

“A magic user should try to help people with their powers,” the Nomad shook his head. “It should be used for good--for saving lives and reuniting families, not… this. Whatever you’ve got going on here ain’t right. This power shouldn’t be in your hands.”

“Is it any better in  _ yours _ ?” The Undertaker asked. The Nomad shook his head.

“I ain’t gonna use it, I’m gonna get rid of it.”

“Get-- you  _ can’t _ just--”

“Goodbye, and I pray we might never meet again,” the Nomad said. He bit his lip, tucking both the book and the remnants of the music box into the space behind his shawl with a sigh. He walked towards the door.

“Wait, you can’t just--  _ you can’t leave me here _ !” The Nomad pushed open the door, swallowing his instincts to help as he rushed out of the house. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me  _ alone _ !”

He slammed the door shut behind him, back resting against the wood for just a moment as he caught his breath.

It was warmer outside, bringing the comforts of the sunrise around the Nomad in a blanket of memories, memories on the tip of his tongue and just out of reach.  _ Someday. _

Then, he heard the sounds of horse hooves.

And he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the undertaker so much


	6. El Rey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nomad was sure he’d never been here before, but somehow, he seemed to know every inch of the castle, and his guide was almost unnecessary.

The Nomad wasn’t sure how far away Toth and Skout were but he knew they were on his trail, and if he stopped now, they’d surely catch up in no time at all. Whether he liked it or not he needed to keep pressing on into the desert waste.

The wind began to pick up speed and sand pelted him from every angle. Gusts of air strong enough to send him flying bombarded his tired form as he stumbled through the sands. Between the scorching desert sun and the winds beating against his chest, the Nomad only wished for room enough to breathe freely, but knew it wasn’t likely.

Aware of a form in the sands that he hadn’t quite realized before, his hands reached out to touch stone. He traced along the edges until he came to a set of large double doors. He pushed them gently to make his way inside. When the doors slammed behind him, the Nomad jumped, startled by the sudden sound echoing through the largeness of the room.

Once his nervousness faded out and his hands dropped back to his side, an odd sensation fell upon the Nomad like a blanket. It wasn’t anything physical, though, this was something more personal: the weight of the structure whispering to him.

The Nomad could feel the grandeur of the castle by every small sound reverberating throughout him. The sounds his shoes made upon the floor left a sense of depth as the walls held their breath in his presence. With every motion, he could feel how full the castle was with the remnants of legacies long past, leaving behind only their ghosts to give hint to the mysteries behind what once were.

His hand brushed against the wall, no, against the weary tapestry displayed against the wall. Even through his gloves, could feel the moments stolen away from it and the memories long since faded.

Thunder crackled. The Nomad jumped, hand jerking up to grab the tapestry and wrap it around himself for comfort.

He turned his back to the wall, sliding down and sighing with relief. His weary body was ready for some well-earned rest.

He clapped his hands twice and a few shimmering sounds could be heard. He opened up the tapestry, allowing the rocks to snuggle beneath it with him. He soon fell asleep to the sounds of sand hitting the castle walls.

 

“What a wonderful gift you have,” a gentle voice hummed.

The Nomad jerked awake, standing in panic. “Uh--”

She hushed him gently, and he felt his shoulders relax. “Do not be afraid; all are welcome here.”

“I’m-- uh, I don’t think you understand,” the Nomad said softly, but couldn’t find it in himself to continue.

“Hm?” the stranger asked softly. When the Nomad found himself unable to explain, the woman chuckled. “In any case, it’s good to see magic again.”

“Ma’am, I’m  _ wanted _ for my magic,” the Nomad blurted before he could think not to. He pat the pockets in his shawl, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper--one he was sure had his face with a decorative reward beneath it.

“Your magic is important, wanderer.” She stood back up, and the Nomad pocketed the poster with his lips pursed. “Do you not understand?”

“I’m… ‘fraid not,” he admitted.

“Oh, my dear; thank the  _ stars _ you were brought to this place.” She breathed out a sigh and began to move away from him. “Follow me, there is  _ so much _ to show you.”

He stood, leaving the tapestry against the stone flooring, and began to follow the sounds she made. The Nomad was sure he’d never been here before, but somehow, he seemed to know every inch of the castle, and his guide was almost unnecessary. Every archway, every bit of tiled flooring, every torn tapestry and every ceiling framed by a tall, stone ribcage he couldn’t see but knew was there. The divots cut in the wall were old secrets, and the worn floors were comfortable and smooth with use.

His footsteps echoed through the vast hallways ahead, sound meeting reflection and giving the illusion of someone else walking alongside him, someone to accompany him on his journey.

And for a moment, there was.

A hero, wandering the castle with an acute ambition, owning naught but heavy armor and heavier duties. The Nomad forgot himself as he heard the hero walk along, gentle breeze blowing back and warm sunlight cascading from a window that must’ve been about as high as the top of the spiral staircase he thought might be there.

The sensory vision faded out as the hero ran ahead of the Nomad, up the stairs.

The Nomad stopped, reaching out to touch the wall before he continued on, letting his foot rest against the first of many steps.

He heard several others making the same trek as he was, climbing the steps to meet the man who, once a hero, was now the king. Arriving to see such splendor, breathing in the aromas of a refurbished castle with awe. The stone is softer now, and the air is oxygen-rich and tantalizing, easier to breathe than the sandy air that gave its thanks to the desert winds.

The Nomad smiled as his footsteps became those of the people leaving the castle, delighted and hopeful, glad and content. They found what they came for and their joy was what they thought of most.

And it was just the Nomad again, gloved hand trailing the walls as he climbed the last of the staircase, emerging through a pair of doors into a room that was warm with stories.

People dropped to their knees to beg favors of the king. Shimmering sounds were followed by cheery voices praising him, treating him like a god for blessing the harvest, for alleviating pain, for curing their son’s affliction.

Until one.

A man and a woman sit before the king, asking a favor, but he cannot provide. He tries again, but the shimmering well of magic bestowed upon him has run dry.

The Nomad’s hands trailed along the armrests of the throne at the end of the room, and he felt sad. The king tried and tried again, but he could no longer tap into what once made him great… it was gone.

As his hand dropped from the throne, he realized something darker, something more sinister lay within the walls.

Screaming. The same shimmer of magic was now cloaked in the sounds of despair, of greed, of a need for power.

Deaths. Hundreds of deaths. Entire towns burned with the passion of a man gone mad with power and a craving never to be satisfied. Homes, businesses, everything upturned as the scent of rotting flesh overwhelmed the Nomad.

“And there was no more magic,” The Nomad murmured.

The full weight of what he’d said hit him with a force that sent him stumbling backwards, and when he hit the ground, he awoke with a jolt. Feeling the tapestry around him and the rocks by his side, he knew it must’ve been a dream, but it was what he needed to know--something he’d forgotten that had to come to him as the memories, the  _ scars _ of the castle whispered for help.

He reached a hand out to touch the floor, feeling the tense stone seem to relax just a bit at his touch, knowing somebody else could feel its plight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil short chapter since the canon episode was split half and half between the nomad and skout/toth, here ya go :’)


End file.
